Haaaaaaaaaam

I likes my idiot hooman at the moment.

He keeps bringing tasties home.

He keeps bringing hams.

He thinks I can't tell, but I can smell it as soon as he walks in with it.

And I know where he keeps it — in the big, tall, white thing.

If he goes to it and I trots to his side, I make sure to look up at him with my wide catty eyes.

Then I meow as if this is my last song on Earth.

This usually does the trick.

For extra cuteness, I jump up at him.

Job done: hams secured.

 


 

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